


Charles Xavier's Home for Wayward Canines

by zombieboyband



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombieboyband/pseuds/zombieboyband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU where Erik is a vegan animal rights activist who rescues pit bulls, Charles has a vicious dachshund named Patches and eventually they open a dog shelter together, but not before awkward meadow bellyrubs and dog boners and shoes getting puked on. In progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never caught a rabbit

It's the third time everyone at the Westchester County Humane Society has gathered around to stare at this puppy with helpless eyes, but this time, it's different: there are no more options.

The first time Hector had been the center of attention, he'd been brought in with severely infected lungs, on the brink of death, starved and skinny and practically hairless, and someone had said, in a small and scared voice,

"Why don't we call Erik?"

And suddenly, everyone snapped into action: a vet was found, money was raised, a foster home was picked.

Erik was not called.

Hector recovered, and found a home.

The second time, Hector had been back in because the family that adopted him had suddenly, of all things, had their house burned down. Hector escaped with minor burns--distributed over more than half his body. The shelter was full to bursting and so chronically underfunded that they'd stopped buying milkbones for the dogs, and in a hesitant, halting voice, the new girl had said,

"Should we call Erik?"

And suddenly the volunteer manager remembered that she had gotten some birthday money and said she didn't really need that new pair of shoes after all, so she could probably buy the meds if someone could get the vet to examine Hector for free.

Erik was not called.

Hector recovered, and was again adopted.

This time Hector's had his muzzle torn to shreds and he's still bleeding, days after County Animal Services picked him up, and the microchip in his shoulder is the only reason he wasn't immediately put down, like most injured dogs are at County. That's not the only wound, but it's the one that keeps him from being able to eat or open his mouth. His legs are torn open in too many places and the end of his tail is gone and his ears are missing chunks here and there. Infection is setting in everywhere.

No one knows what to say, and everyone's broke, and there are just under a hundred other dogs on facility that need care. There's no where else to send Hector. Shelters without a no-kill policy will euthanize him--probably because of the extent of his wounds, but almost certainly because of the cause of them.

Hector's a big eight month old pitbull, and he's just been in a dog fighting ring.

The room is hushed while everyone stares at the weak and bloody form lying on the table, listlessly.

Into this silence walks someone with a jaunty step. The step slows, but doesn't falter, and soon Charles Xavier is standing next to Hector. Slowly, softly, he extends a hand and rests it lightly on his flank.

Hector tries to wag his stump of a tail.

"Why haven't we called Erik yet?" Charles asks.

++

Everyone at the shelter is terrified of Erik, except Charles, so when someone finally dials his number, Charles has to stop his soft murmurings to Hector ("there, love, don't try to lick, you can't open your mouth,") to man the phone.

"Erik, there's a puppy here who needs you," is all Charles says in greeting.

A few minutes later he hangs up.

"Erik's coming over," he says, a little dreamily, and only the fact that Hector has scooted pathetically close to him, close enough to get blood all over his sweater, keeps everyone from commenting.

++

When Erik shows up, he is _pissed_.

++

Charles and Erik have a fairly good working relationship. They save a lot of dogs.

Charles and Erik used to have a great working relationship, but then that thing happened with the belly rub in the meadow and shit got weird.

++

And then there was the time Erik made out with Charles's sister, that was weird, too.

++

"Right, then. I'll get the car," Charles is saying.

"Like fuck you will," Erik responds, "I hate your car."

"Oh, don't let Rosalind hear that," Charles says of his cherry red vintage muscle monstrosity, "You'll hurt her feelings. Besides, what are you going to do, _bike_ Hector to the vet?"

There's a snappy retort somewhere on the back of Erik's tongue--it's scorching, it's brilliant, it certainly does _not_ consist entirely of the word "yes" in his most intimidating tone of voice that doesn't work on Charles anyway--but they both turn to look at Hector, who, besides being fairly large, is also bloody and in obvious pain.

"Right, then," Erik says blankly. "I'll load the dog if you put my bike on the roof."

"Just like old times," Charles says calmly.

Erik makes a face.

++

The truth is that the old times Charles brought up are not in fact that old, but they do resemble the current times. Erik does not appreciate this, but Charles is mercifully silent on the matter as they stand in the vet's waiting room. His hands are in his pockets and he looks up at the ceiling, blue eyes reflecting the artificial lights, and he tries to give Erik a moment of privacy now that Hector's been taken into the back.

The truth is that Charles and Erik met at this vet office, and the staff knows them by name, and Dr. Kavita Rao has witnessed more or less the entire splash of their working relationship.

The truth is that Erik has his hands shoved into his black hoodie a little too stiffly, because he remembers meeting Charles here, Charles and bloody fucking Patches, the shittest dog in the world, and how he still had Magda at the time, his beautiful Magda.


	2. flash back - Ain't no friend of mine

++

 

Erik had come to say good bye, because Magda was too old to stay as sick as she was, and even though it went in the face of so many things he stood for, Erik was having her put to sleep. And the fuck of it was, he'd know Magda for _seventeen years_ , she was ancient for a dog, ancient, it was time to let her go, but Erik had been on the brink of tears even when he was just signing in.

And then there had been that _stupid_ messy haired douchebag and his _stupid_ shitty wiener dog and their _stupid_ matching sweaters, saying, respectively, "Are you quite all right?" and something like, "hnngck."

Patches had horked up the medicines she'd been given ten minutes before and puked up on Erik's shoes.

"Your dog," Erik had croaked, "My shoes."

"Dreadfully sorry!" Charles had said, looking mildly alarmed, searching for a roll of paper towels, something, "Um. She does that, sometimes. It's her way of saying hello. Just. Let me--?"

"They were organic cotton canvas," Erik said, like the puke was happening to someone very far away.

"Washable, then," Charles said cheerfully, because he'd reached over the desk and found paper towels.

"I can feel the vomit seeping into my socks," Erik had said, absently.

"Bad Patches, you bad girl, you," said Charles, sounding like the world's most lenient and indulgent parent. His sweatered dachshund was looking at him with flat, defiant eyes, as if to say, _Mop it up, mop it--I would do it again_.

"My socks are hemp," Erik said blankly.

"Lovely," Charles said, kneeling at Erik's feet, cleaning off his shoes.

"I'm about to kill my dog," Erik said.

"Oh," Charles said, from down on the floor, "I'm sorry."

He stood up and gave Erik a hug, vomit soaked paper towels still in hand.

Erik resisted manfully for all of five seconds and then shed a tear or two or five quietly into the stranger's stupid sweatered shoulder.

++

Later on, Charles had handed Patches to one of the girls behind the front desk ("there's a love," he'd said, with a smile, and Erik never knew if he was talking to his dog, or to the blond with two different color eyes), and quietly gone with Erik into one of the back rooms.

"Her name is Magda," Erik said, "She's seventeen. She has cancer."

"My name is Charles, I'm twenty four," Charles said, falling into step with Erik, "And I'm very sorry."

"It's okay," Erik said, "About my shoes."

"I wasn't apologizing for the shoes."

"Well," Erik said weakly, not managing any of his usual steely whatever, "You should."

"Maybe later," Charles said, "May I ask who the vet is--?"

Erik shook his head: he didn't know who was going to be injecting his dog.

"I don't--" he started, but he couldn't finish.

"Ah."

Charles touched a passing tech on the arm, made eye contact with her, smiled sadly, and quietly requested a Dr. Rao.

They waited in the room--Erik, Charles, and Erik's grey-muzzled, blue eyed mutt. There wasn't any conversation. Erik buried his face in Magda's soft, once white fur, around her neck, and didn't speak. Magda tried to nose him.

"Shh," was the only intentional noise in the room, and it was from Charles. Erik wasn't sure who it was meant for, because Charles was rubbing soft circles into his back with one hand, but stroking Magda behind the ears with the other.

Then Magda licked his face, trying to wag her tail even though it obviously hurt her, and Charles couldn't manage to speak, either.

++

Erik didn't notice at the time and had to remember later: when Dr. Rao had come in to administer the injection, Charles had held his hand the whole time.

++

By the time they made it outside, it was dark. Charles had Patches cuddled against his chest, his cheek pressed to her head.

"Look," he said after a moment, "I know, uh. You haven't actually told me your name yet, and I know this isn't the ideal time, but I do some work with the dog shelter on Palm Street, and we could use--and you could--"

"Erik."

"Erik," Charles repeated, and smiled, as they walked towards his car, "Uh. Do you need a ride somewhere?"

And maybe that was when it all really started.

"What kind of _mileage_ does this piece of shit get?" Erik exclaimed.

"Sshh," Charles repeated, almost the same noise from earlier as he opened his door and patted the car lovingly on the hood, "This was my father's car, you know, and I've kept her in excellent condition."

"Captain Planet hates you," Erik said, getting in.

"So," Charles said, "You want to maybe get some pizza or something?"

There was silence in the car.

"There's this great place just down the road, skip and a hop away, they do a fantastic meat lover, no skimping on the sausage--"

"I don't eat meat," Erik said.

"Oh, well, there's the lovely little fondue place in the opposite direction, how about that?"

Another silence.

"I'm _vegan_ ," Erik said, in a pained voice.

"Oh," Charles said, "I'm sorry."

"You didn't kn--"

"It really _is_ a fantastic pizza place; you're missing out," Charles finished, quite cheerfully.

Erik stared.

++

They ended up going to a small, charming cafe where the only think Erik could order was salad, and it still came with chicken, which, by force of habit, he ordered on the side. When it came, he looked stricken--he couldn't eat his salad, managing only to stare at the small additional plate, lonely with plain strips of chicken on it. They were seated outside, but the shiver he gave had nothing to do with the cold. Without Magda, he had no reason--there was nothing-- _without Magda_...

"Don't mind if we do," Charles said cheerfully, reaching over the table and spearing some of the chicken with his fork, "Do we, Patches, silly girl?"

Patches, sitting defiantly under _Erik's_ chair, does not respond to being cooed at. When she takes the chicken from between Charles's fingers, she snaps down her tiny little jaws.

"Tch," Charles says, shaking his hand, "Patches, you _must_ learn some table manners."

He doesn't sound like he means it. He doesn't sound like he means it at _all_. When he pretended to scold Patches for begging at a stranger's table earlier, he hadn't sound it like he meant it then, either. Charles always addresses Patches in the same oh-so-softly-amused voice, with the same ever affectionate sigh.

It's driving Erik _crazy_.

"You know," he says, "If a dog twice her size acted that way, it would be only half as cute."

"Yes, but Patches is _adorable_ ," Charles purrs, beaming down at his dog.

Patches comes over to gnaw at his ankle until he gives her another piece of chicken.

"And if a big dog acted like that, everyone would be appalled," Erik goes on.

"Patches weighs 13 gorgeous, perfect pounds," Charles sighs.

"And if, say, a pitbull did that, people would clamor for it to be put down."

"Small dogs don't have to have manners," Charles says, fondly, reaching down to pet Patches on the rump.

There was a pause.

"I think I hate you," Erik says slowly, "Both of you. At least a little."

"Can we have the rest of your chicken, then?" Charles asks when he looks up from picking up Patches and putting her in his lap.

Erik pushes the chicken towards them wordlessly.

Patches snaps at him when his hand lingers.

++

Charles breezes into the shelter next day, all smiles, Patches tucked into his messenger bag stuffed full of papers.

"Right," he says to everyone, "We should be expecting a new volunteer in a week or so."

"Charles, did you make a friend?" Raven leans out of a doorway and squints her eyes at him. "You never make friends."

"Patches and I have _tons_ of friends," Charles says, "Jolly lots, thank you."

"Does she hate Patches?" Raven asks.

"He says he hates both of us," Charles admits, "But I think he'll change his mind soon."


End file.
